Read the First Chapter of Two Sirs, With Love--FREE

“I heard that she runs around in a
strapless bustier with four-inch heels,” said Brooke McQueen. Ian Lawson knew
her as the wildest McQueen sister.

“Yes,” agreed Cass Cameron, a six-foot-tall
gal who was the director of the front office at the Triple Play Lodge. She
leaned confidentially over the coffee table and looked from side to side. “And
that she was the meanest most sadistic flogger the place had ever seen.”

“Oh, come now,” said Sasha McQueen. As a
medical doctor, Ian knew she was the most logical of the sisters. “This is all
hearsay. Just because poor Felicity runs away to Stockholm and doesn’t talk to
us for a few years, we can imagine all sorts of wild things. Let’s give her a
chance, shall we?”

“Actually,” said Xandra McQueen,
apparently a former “wild child” herself, “I did hear this from Dad in one of
his lucid moments a couple of years ago. It’s a definite fact that she worked
at a bondage club in Stockholm called The Fat Shaft.”

“That could be anything,” said Sasha. “That
could be an indoor archery range.”

“I don’t know,” Xandra said skeptically.
Although not the oldest, she had evidently lucked into inheriting the lodge
directly from their father, who was back home in Charleston in the last stages
of dementia. “One of the few times Felicity e-mailed me, she sent me a photo of
herself. True, she was wearing a sweater, but I swear you could see the outline
of a nipple ring.”

The other women gasped, but Ian’s prick
elongated as he thought of nipple rings on women.

Ian was crowded on the couches in the
corner with the four beautiful women. It wasn’t such a bad position to be in. The
three sisters—although all spoken for—were stunning, and Cass was a hottie in
an Amazonian way. Ian spent his days in the accounting office of his corporate
headquarters in Washington, DC. There were a couple of battleaxes in the office,
and the rest of the accountants were all men. He didn’t get out much into
elegant society such as this, and it was a stimulating pleasure merely to be
around several women, much less hotties. This vacation was shaping up to be the
best thing he’d done in years.

“Are you sure it was a nipple ring?” Ian
asked. He wasn’t accustomed to drinking this much alcohol, either, but it was a
rehearsal dinner for Sasha’s wedding to Ian’s buddy Rowan, and pretty much
everyone was cutting loose. “I mean, it could have been a…” Now he felt
idiotic, but he knew his attractive British accent would make up for his
stumble. Women loved British accents.

Brooke punched him lightly in the upper
arm. “Oh, come on! You know you love it, Ian. You know you’re just dying to
meet this wild party girl who knows how to give a good flogging. I’ll bet
there’s an unrestrained savage lurking beneath your sweater vest.”

While all the women laughed, Ian wanted
to protest. Just because he was a chartered accountant didn’t mean he wore a
sweater vest. The three sisters had hooked up with operatives, men who worked
for private military contractors such as Ian and Rowan’s company, Hawkeye Corp.
These commandos worked in the field doing daring things like dismantling bombs,
taking down terrorists, and parachuting out of planes. Still, Ian knew there
wasn’t the slightest comparison between what Rowan did, for example, and what
he did. They had only become friends because once Rowan had come to the
accounting office to complain about a paycheck error. They had discovered that,
besides both being from the British Isles—Rowan hailed from County Kerry in
Ireland—they were fans of Heroes of Order
& Chaos. At first they had played the game on their phones. It was exciting
knowing he was up against someone who was currently sitting surveillance on a
terrorist’s house in Palm Beach. But since they had found out they lived close
to each other, Ian had started visiting Rowan’s DC loft to manipulate their
immortal warriors on a bigger screen. Rowan lived in a vast man cave full of
exercise equipment. He was so manly he didn’t have a gun safe—he had a gun room protected by Pentagon levels of
security.

Rowan’s cave resembled Tony Stark’s
invention lab, with its massive ammo reloading table, state of the art work-out
equipment, and kitchen like a mad scientist’s workshop. Ian was allowed to see
the macho, ripped, courageous side of working for Hawkeye Corp. Ian was bonded
to work on top secret projects and had signed a nondisclosure agreement, of
course, and was allowed into Rowan’s world of electronic divining rods, facial
recognition software, and high-value targets. Ian had graduated with honors
from Oxford sixteen years ago and had chosen to work for Hawkeye because he
thought it would be dashing. But until meeting Rowan O’Shea, it hadn’t been. He
worked in a windowless office and his coworkers gossiped about which operative
was in Cuba, Panama, or Iraq. But rarely did they see the operatives unless
they came in to complain about their paychecks.

Now Rowan had invited Ian to his wedding
in southeast Utah, and Ian was saying asinine things about nipple rings in
front of a crowd of hot women. He sat up erect and straightened his tie
impudently. “There’s another side to me, yes,” he admitted slyly. “I’ve been
Rowan’s wingman on more than one occasion. A festive partier lurks beneath this
square exterior.”

This sent the women into a whirlwind of
laughter. If Ian couldn’t be an operative, this was the next best thing. Being
the best friend of a decorated mercenary meant he could move in colorful,
glamorous circles such as this. The rehearsal dinner was being held in Brooke’s
“cabin,” Two in the Bush, but it was more like an impressive chalet with its
two-story-tall windows, enormous river rock fireplace, and exposed beam ceilings
hung with antler chandeliers, just like in the Triple Play’s lobby. This style
was known as “Mountain Craftsmen,” so Ian had heard, and he greatly admired it.

“Well, you’re single, aren’t you, Ian?”
Sasha asked.

“I am,” Ian admitted, unsure if this was
good or bad.

“Then maybe you could squire our, ah,
our unusual sister around for the
next few days.”

It wasn’t just Ian’s heart that swelled
at this proposal. He was glad his double-breasted suit jacket was buttoned. He
knew he had a rather large cock, but he didn’t think even these racy ladies
would want to look at his erection. “Of course, I’d be honored—”

“I’m
single, too,” groused Cass Cameron, crossing her long gams and flipping her
hair in disgust.

Ian knew the proper thing to do. He
wasn’t that inexperienced with the
ladies. “I can squire you both, but you know your way around the lodge better
than she will.”

“And you’re my maid of honor,” whined
Sasha, putting a hand on Cass’s arm. “You have more important duties than
amusing Rowan’s best friend.”

Cass looked down her nose at Sasha’s
hand. “I do?”

As everyone laughed, Ian stood and took
Cass’s highball glass. “I’ll get you another.”

The knot of macho commandos was
conglomerated near the bar, so after Ian got the Long Island Iced Tea from the
bartender, he insinuated himself into the group. Besides the manly operatives,
there were at least two game wardens who worked for the state. One of them, a
Perry Donovan, was Rowan’s best man, and Ian was vaguely jealous of him. He
wondered why he wasn’t best man, when
Rowan had gone to the trouble to invite him to Utah for his wedding. Further,
there was an odd intimacy between Rowan and Perry. They had held the bachelor
party last night at a shit-kicking bar in the nearest town, Bird in Hand. Rowan
and Perry were falling all over each other, wankered like everyone else in the
bar. But the way they looked at each other seemed to go…beyond wankered. Ian knew that many operatives had poofter
leanings. They spent a great deal of time in the bush with nothing better to
do, apparently, than to try their hand at uphill gardening. But why would Rowan
be marrying the elegant, graceful Dr. Sasha McQueen if he was going to be
giving a hummer to another fellow?

Ian had been irritated at his own
jealousy. He knew that he worshiped Rowan O’Shea, and at times had even
wondered if his feelings went beyond a man crush. Did Ian harbor homoerotic
feelings? Thinking about it wasn’t entirely appalling, not when it involved the
studly Rowan. He found himself now shooting Perry Donovan narrow-eyed,
suspicious glances. Perry couldn’t be a day over thirty. He was much too young
for Rowan. Yet there Rowan was, slapping Perry on his manly shoulder, literally
hanging onto his every word.

Rowan was telling a
story. “Perry finally got him in a headlock—”

“And his hand reached up, trying to nail
Perry in the eyes,” Doug added. Doug Ostrovsky was some kind of goofy, distant
stepbrother to the McQueen girls. He seemed to run the cattle ranch that was
connected to the lodge and called everyone “buckaroo.”

The men laughed until tears made their
eyes shine. Ian wondered why Perry the Great didn’t just take his gun out to
subdue the suspect. He was a game warden for the state. “Why didn’t he just
handcuff the guy?”

“Handcuff who?” Rowan gasped for air, he was so full of mirth. “Handcuff a kangaroo?”

Now everyone seemed to be laughing at
Ian’s expense, because he hadn’t known that Perry had been fighting with a
kangaroo in the story. He sipped at Cass’s drink. It would make him look even
feebler to now ask what a kangaroo was doing in the Utah high desert, so Ian
was relieved when the McQueen family lawyer, a Sol Greenspan, stuck his head
into the group.

Sol slashed the air with his hand. “All
right, you bon vivants. I’m heading back to the lodge. Got a phone call from
Miss Felicity McQueen that she arrived, so I’ll bring her back here. Get all
your dirty jokes out of your system before she arrives.”

“Hey,” protested Adrian Kinsey, another
commando, as his friends elbowed him knowingly, “I’m only repeating what my
wife told me. This Miss Felicity has apparently gone over the edge.”

Doug goofed, “Or should we say Mistress Felicity?”

Sol jabbed a forefinger in Doug’s face. “Never
you mind that, Emo McGee. She’s a McQueen sister, so she’s a valued client of
mine. I want to make her feel welcome. You’re all married to McQueens, you
should know how they are.” He stood tall and tried to look down his nose at the
black ops men and rangers. “The sisters are just like their lawyer. Only the
very best with just the right amount of dirty.”

Sol must have expected the hailstorm of
protests and epithets that were showered on him now as he made his getaway. Ian
had the feeling Sol was smiling as he exited the house, and the men yelled
after him.

“Do you need a spanking, Sol?”

“Have you been a bad boy?”

“Do you need a gal with big boobs to
punish you, Sol?”

Still laughing, Rowan drifted away from
the group and told Ian pleasantly, “I should talk. I get a kick out of BDSM now
and then. We’ve been known to get into a little light flogging or fire play.”

Fire
play?
Ian had no idea what that might entail but didn’t want to show his ignorance. He
looked out the enormous plate glass window at the snowy panorama beyond. Utah
was really quite gorgeous, with its sandstone spires, cathedrals, and pinnacles
that resembled frosting-topped cupcakes now in January. The desert was far from
boring, but Ian was distraught Rowan was moving there, away from DC. “Oh, yeah?
You, Sasha, and…”

He had hoped Rowan would fill in the
blank, but Rowan only said, “Oh, yes. Nathan too. He and Xandra have quite the
handcuff collection.”

“I imagine these game wardens have the
top of the line handcuffs.”

Rowan didn’t pick up the bait. “We
shouldn’t tease the women’s sister. Who knows what she’ll be like? Since she’s
their sister, I’m sure she’s perfectly gracious and beautiful.”

“Yes,” agreed Ian, honestly. “We’re just
being insensitive cads, typical men, making schoolboy jokes because she worked
in a bondage den.”

Rowan’s eyes twinkled. “Yes. But you
have to admit, it is fun thinking of her all done up in a patent leather
bustier, whipping some lardass who demands to be punished for stealing candy.”

Ian couldn’t help smile, too. “I’ve been
asked to squire her around the next few days.”

Rowan instantly sobered up. “What? Who
asked you to do that?”

Ian frowned. Why should it be so
impossible to believe that he could squire around a bondage dominatrix? Just
because he was an accountant did it mean he had never dated a woman who was
slightly racy, a little bit edgy? On the strength of his British accent alone
he had lured in many naughty gals who had expanded his horizons. He had been
told he was good-looking—handsome, even. He had just studied business because
it was reliable and he needed to send money home to his mother. He could not
have afforded to dash about on some dodgy shenanigans like Rowan and his ilk. “Your
wife.”

Forced
orgasm? Rowan’s coming up with all sorts of things I’ve never heard of. “Right. Just
because she used to be a Dominatrix
for a living doesn’t mean it’s her lifestyle. She owned the club, after all. People
who get paid to do that aren’t all in the lifestyle. The girls were saying that
Felicity only left their home in Charleston for Stockholm after her husband
died. Maybe his death affected her. We shouldn’t pick on her.”

“Yes. She went to Europe, sort of lost
it, I believe. Was overwhelmed by grief. Couldn’t handle losing him. I don’t dare
imagine that happening to me, losing Sasha, and I can commiserate with Felicity.
It shows she’s capable of deep feelings, something I never thought terribly
possible until I met Sasha.”

That was as good an opening as Ian could
hope to get. “Right. Now about this Perry Donovan bloke.”

“What about him?”

Ian had no choice but to barge ahead. He
could only hope Rowan would get so drunk he wouldn’t recall this conversation
tomorrow. “I know that you’ve been known to…to dabble in some nancy activities now and then. When you’re out in
the field, of course.”

Rowan had a warning, cautious tone. “Yes…”

“I was just wondering if you were…dabbling with Perry, as well.”

There was a brief silence where Ian just
wanted to sink down into the bowels of hell. Rowan’s pupils contracted into
pinpoints and his brow furrowed. Ian had seen this mask of rage when Rowan had
been thinking about some target or other, some kidnaper, rapist, or crazed bomber.
Ian had never seen it directed against him, however. A litany of all the
creative methods Rowan had of murdering someone started running through Ian’s
head.

“Yes,” Rowan at last said, and a huge
cloud was lifted from the room. “We dabble, the three of us. It’s quite
a…gratifying lifestyle. And you’d be surprised how the local townsfolk at Bird
in Hand are accepting of it. We’re all three very committed to each other, but
of course we can’t legally marry Perry.”

A thousand questions assaulted Ian’s brain.
Why didn’t he choose to dabble with me? What’s
wrong with me? I work out. I lift weights. Ian liked to see himself as a
Superman sort of bloke. Mild-mannered by day, eighth wonder of the modern world
by night. At least, he wanted to be. Instead,
Ian just smiled tolerantly. “He seems like a nice fellow,” he said lamely.

“He’s amazing,” said Rowan, dreamy-eyed.
“I love him just as much as Sasha, only in a slightly different way. You’ll
come to see that in the next few days.”

Since Ian couldn’t imagine the situation
becoming any more uncomfortable, he excused himself to deliver Cass’s drink and
went to the bathroom.

Squiring Felicity around might be the
closest Ian would ever get to intimacy with Rowan. They might, in some remote
alternate universe, shag two sisters. That would make him feel closer to Rowan.
Why had he never realized the extent of his man crush on Rowan before? He could
have made some vague pass, all those times they had sat around his cave
drinking whiskey, playing chess, Manhunt,
or practicing “throwing some sticks” at paper targets with their compound bows.

As Ian washed his hands, he realized he
was just being absurd. He merely admired Rowan greatly and was upset that he
was losing his best friend in DC. Sure, Ian had his nerdy World of Warcraft friends, and the friends he met at the gym for
handball, but being with Rowan gave him the sense that life was worth living. He
could live vicariously through Rowan’s adventures. When Rowan told him a story
about nabbing a suicide bomber, Ian felt almost as though he’d lived the
adventure himself. Without Rowan his life would consist of one balance sheet
after another. The high point of his year would be April 15. He’d get an
adrenaline rush from extending a tax deadline.

So Ian emerged from the loo feeling as
though he owed Rowan an apology. He shouldn’t have tried to delve into Rowan’s
personal life like that. It was none of his bloody business. His problem was
that for years he had longed to bust out and get wild like the operatives
constantly did. It was an everyday thing for them to race through an outdoor
farmer’s market knocking over banana stands, vaulting over pyramids of
watermelons, dodging the ninja stars the targets threw at them. He had chosen
to work at Hawkeye Corp. out of all the Fortune 500 companies that had made him
offers after university. He imagined that, although the paperwork would be the
same dull chore at Hawkeye, at least he’d work against a backdrop of spying and
surveillance. Part of that had come true in the past sixteen years. As CFO, he
oversaw the accountants who purchased the operatives all of their spy gear. And
his company letterhead had a bull’s-eye logo on it. That was about the extent
of the excitement.

But by the time he returned to Adrian’s
palatial living room, the mood of the entire party had changed.

The lawyer had returned with Felicity
McQueen. She stood tall in the center of a crowd. It was like in those movies
where everything else melted away from the center of attention in a psychedelic
haze. Felicity would have been taller than most women, but she added inches by
sweeping her carrot-red hair into an updo. She wore a simple seafoam green
cardigan like something from the prim 50s, but oh how she filled out that
cardigan. Her pillowy breasts rose buoyantly from a bra that was an engineering
miracle. The U-neck of the sweater didn’t expose much flesh, but in silhouette
it clung to her hourglass figure like moss.

Were it not for that va-va-voom figure,
Felicity might have looked like the girl next door. She didn’t look a bit jaded
or world-weary with her perky features, trim black slacks, carefully applied
red lipstick, and furry boots. Although of course, along with every other man
in the room, Ian was picturing her wearing a form-fitting cop’s uniform and
crotchless pantyhose. He looked for the outline of a nipple ring on the
sweater.

“There’s the gal you’re going to squire?”
Ian just now noticed Rowan standing next to him, gaping like an ape with his
hands dangling at his sides. “You’ll be the envy of every man in McQueen
Valley.”

Maybe he would finally get a bit of an
adventure after all.

If you would like to find out more about Two Sirs, With Love, click HERE.